Sunday, April 24, 2011
This dull pain has spread thoroughly within my chest; encasing my organs, swallowing them whole with its relentless mouth. Like the sound of fingernails on a blackboard, the feeling is torturous; loud and piercing, lasting long after it has ceased.
I cannot begin to describe the surreal amount of emotions I have felt in the past four years. Each one is distinct in its own way—as clear as the plucking of each individual guitar string. And they continue to play their notes, making a symphony of life; it hurts to hear but it’s all I can listen to because it is the most comforting and familiar noise I know of.
Tears are produced occasionally.
No, not a waterfall but the slow and steady flow of a cool and refreshing stream. They form when the environment is so cold and the only warmth comes from within. It is the slow rumble of emotions churning and melting into one another; it is the confusion and anger lost within the despair and disappointment. The motion produces heat and gives rise to incredible amount of heat. And the contrast between hot and cold presents a feeling of unimaginable exhaustion. It leaves you gasping for air and you can’t open up your airway long enough in fear of losing the only warmth left.
Then the devil speaks.
He tempts you with physical pain, relocating the unexplainable pain to one in which you can locate easily. He tempts you with a reason; an excuse to use if you were ever questioned: because a plausible answer is better than one that cannot be uttered. He blinds you with vulnerability and persuades you through the lack of a better reason.
The devil always speaks.
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
I kept it safe for a year. Not a single dog-earred corner and a wrinkle wasn’t to be found because I secretly hoped that you would come back soon enough and make each and every word on that piece of paper true again. But I was wrong and today, I sat down and pulled it out from underneath all the junk I have accumulated over the years.
The note is just as white as it was when I first found it in my purse. The stickers you put on it was still shiny and new. But the meaning of the words you handwrote are old; the blue ink stood out like it was written yesterday but the words that had once made my heart skip a beat has died. They don’t do anything to me besides resent you. So I took a deep breath and calmly ripped it up into eight pieces.
This is goodbye to who we were.
Thursday, April 14, 2011
Pockets: they are so much more than just the details on our clothes. Pockets are personal—they represent a part of our identity. Pockets have the ability to tell stories and they are great at keeping secrets. Pockets are more than just a private space as they can easily become part of the public space as well; you can take things out of them and show your belongings to others. But more than not, we take advantage of them, shoving them with scraps and garbage. We forget that we carry them with us no matter where we go. Our pockets have the capability of showcasing who we are. They come in different sizes; they are made out of different materials, they come in different colours and they have different depths to them.
I remember your pocket.
It was black and had the perfect depth. It was soft and worn from the usage of them. It contained small bits of who you are: a lighter, a small donation card from the deaf, a piece of folded up paper, a receipt. In other words, you are a smoker, a giver, a writer and you are responsible. I listened to your pocket that evening. I listened very well as it told me the story of a day in the life of you. I reached in the first time and you didn’t even hesitate or move away. You gave me access to a personal part of you.
Pockets are underestimated.
Sunday, April 10, 2011
It has been a while since she has found herself surrounded by the hazy smoke. She slowly brings it to her lips and inhales deeply. She feels the warmth of the smoke within her moist mouth and slowly exhales, making the steady trail of smoke dance towards the low, off-white ceiling. She has lost track of time as she sits on the leather couch; it sticks to her bare legs as she moves around, readjusting the position of her legs. It creaks loudly but she doesn’t notice the sound. Instead, she is enchanted by the low rumbling voice of Louis Armstrong laced with the sultry voice of Ella. She closes her eyes and gently sways her body as she quietly sings with them:
Under a blanket of blue,
Let me be thrilled by all your charms.
Darling, I know my heart will dance
Within your arms.
Opening her eyes, the room suddenly seems so much smaller. She can hear the sound of her own breathing echo within the room. The walls glow and the room feels too warm. She sinks lower into the couch and allows herself to be carried away. She curls up in the corner of the couch into the fetus position and begins to weep. She lets out small, quiet sobs; her breaths are rapid and short, following a stream of tears down her face. Still in her hand, she takes one last drag before tossing into the cigarette tray and rolls onto her back. Staring at the ceiling, she recalls their argument last night. She only remembers the numerous times they told each other to fuck off; the yelling and the anger that filled the room was insurmountable.
She gets up and quickly runs into the kitchen, the tile floor sending chills up her spine. She scrambles for a wine glass and opens up a bottle of Shiraz, pouring right up to the rim. She takes a big sip and slowly walks back to the living room. She walks over to an empty wall and slides her back down towards the floor; sitting in the corner, she watches the front door. The floor is cold and sends goose bumps along her legs. Louis and Ella have stopped singing; the only sound playing is from the humming of the fan. She looks down at her crooked knees and begins to count the number of small scars on them. She sighs and walks over to grab her small purse on the floor beside the couch. She sits cross-legged on the floor and pulls out a small tin box. She carefully opens it and takes a deep breath in. She measures the precise amount and carefully rolls another. Taking it to her mouth, she gently licks the end and seals it.
She fumbles her box of matches and quickly lights it. Taking her glass in hand, she takes another large sip before bringing her masterpiece to her lips.
Saturday, April 9, 2011
She can hear him breathing heavily next to her. His legs are tangled around her own cold, bare legs. The room is pitch black with only streams of city lights leaking in through the curtains. She can hear the hum of the refrigerator from the kitchen even with the door closed. All the noises seem to blend into a soft symphony of the night; it plays through the night as she stares at the ceiling. She closes her eyes real tight and sees waves of yellows, blues and greens—the comforting colours of the sea. She opens her eyes and turns her head slowly, careful not to wake him. She notices that he has rolled onto his side. She can see the silhouette of his body; his head is pressed against the pillow, his collarbone is exaggerated by shadows highlight the curvature of them. Slowly, she nudges a little closer to get a better look at his face. Everything looks so different in the dark; she feels like she is in a silent black and white film. She studies him closely. His bone structure had never looked so strong and prominent in colour; his eyelashes look so much longer as they flutter gently; his mouth is closed, as if afraid of spilling his most inner thoughts. They are sealed and his lips crack under the pressure of all his secrets. She rolls around onto her back and envisions the sea.
She lets out a small sigh.
Thursday, April 7, 2011
She wakes up to a loud thud.
She rises sleepily; eyes barely open, she sees the blurred outline of him. She lays her head gently back down on the crumpled pillow and watches him. She rubs her eyes with the back of her thin, pale hand and yawns. She can feel that her feet are cold and clammy—she pokes her toes out from the blanket. He grunts a quick “sorry” and goes back to his bookshelf. His eyebrows are knotted as he concentrates on removing his novels from the shelf to the ground; someone must have touched his belongings last night. That is the only explanation. She notices his sturdy arms as they move up and down, back and forth, never missing a beat as he stocks and restocks his bookshelf. She watches the light of determination within his eyes as he concentrates on each book as if they were the only one. It is when he is in one of these moods does she become fearful of him. She stifles a yawn as he finishes putting the last few novels back into place: their rightful place. Placing the last book onto the shelf, he turns to her. His forehead is no longer wrinkled with irritation and she recognizes the sparkle of liveliness in his eyes: he is back. With the back of his hand, he brushes the hair out of her eyes with one quick sweep. She blinks. He is talking to her with his eyes. She understands completely.
They walk out into the living room. She watches him walk; his natural gait is perfectly symmetrical and she tries to follow his footsteps: left, right, left, right, left, right. She halts to a sudden stop. They both stare at the numerous empty wine glasses scattered across the room. There are red wine rings on the wooden table; the room smells strongly of nicotine; dirty plates are piled on the floor and table while the couch is pushed back to the other side of the room. She cannot remember what had happened last night. Not all of it at least. She looks outside the patio doors and sees that it is raining. She shivers at the sight of the grey clouds. The tile floors are cold as she tiptoes over to a stray chair in the middle of the room. She sits with her legs up and hugs her knees as she watches him turn around to head to the bathroom. He slams the door shut.
Last night helped us solve the lingering question but where do we go from here? He told me that I’m alright; I nodded and gave him a smile but I don’t even know what that means…it’s fucking cold in here.
She sees him walk out of the bathroom; shirtless and hair damp, he calls to her. She slowly stretches out her legs and scurries towards the bedroom.
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
The white tile floor sends chills up her spine as she tiptoes across to the coffee brewer. She quickly fixes up a pot and while waiting for the coffee to brew, she stifles a yawn and hurriedly ties her hair up in a ponytail. She walks over to the window and watches the cars go by.
She had woken up to daylight leaking through the curtains. She never thought she would wake up next to him—the face of a beautiful stranger. His breathing was slow, his chest rose up and down rhythmically as she laid her hand on his chest, carefully as not to wake him. She grabbed his old t-shirt and snuck out the door.
Hearing the coffee drip into the pot, she walks back to the kitchen. Cringing at the unbearably cold floor, she can hear him stir. She knew he would wake at the aroma of coffee; she placed two white porcelain mugs on the counter and poured the steaming dark liquid. As she turns around, she sees him heading to the bathroom, grunting and mumbling.
Maybe he isn’t used to this; he probably forgot I was even here..
She leans on the counter, waiting for a sign. She can hear the water running and rapid splashes. She lets out a small sigh and walks out onto the patio with mug in hand. Breathing in the cool morning air, she tries to recall how this had started. It is all so blurry to her; it had started with quick glances to coincidental encounters and next thing you know, they were caught up in each other’s lives.
She gives a quick jump as she feels a hand wrap around her waist. She stifles a giggle as she turns around to face him. She notices he found his mug and smiles. She never noticed how light his eyes were but with the sun shining directly onto both of them, she noticed that they were a shade of honey: golden and sweet. He gives her a quick peck on the forehead and takes out a cigarette. As he lights it, he motions for her to sit down with him on his new patio chairs. She obeys. There are not too many words exchanged as they both sit there and enjoy the unusually warm weather. He holds out his cigarette and she takes a drag. She feels the smoke swirl within her mouth and warm her lungs with a small explosion. She lets out a sigh. He takes one last drag and throws it into the tray. He stands up and stretches his arms and she watches his shirt lift up revealing one of his tattoos on his back. While he is standing, she stretches out her tanned legs and puts her mug down. He walks over her legs as he heads back towards the kitchen. From the patio, she can hear him taking out the frying pan and various dishes.
I wonder if I should stay any longer; he hasn’t said a word about it but it wouldn’t be right to bring it up so suddenly…I wish he could bring it up himself, it’d be better that way…
She heads back in and places the mug in the sink. She looks around and realizes he already has the scrambled eggs on two plates; the slices of bread are in the toaster; the salt and pepper is set on the counter already. She is impressed at his efficiency and refills his mug with coffee. As she does this, he flashes her a quick grin and throws the pan into sink. He grabs her and lifts her up. Her ponytail comes loose and her hair falls across her face, blinding her from his face. He places her on the barstool and sits down beside her. He picks up a fork and begins to eat. She follows him and eats obediently. No words are exchanged, only the sounds of metal scrapping against the milk white porcelain dishes.
“By the way, you look good in that shirt. Keep it if you like.”
Friday, April 1, 2011
It is so cliché when I say this but my heart flutters at the sound of your voice. It trembles ever so slightly within its confined spaces of my ribcage. And the more time we spend together, the louder the beating becomes. The beating of my heart shakes my lungs; I just can’t ignore these physiological symptoms.
And when you smile, touch my hair and embrace me in those strong arms, I realize the intensity of my feelings towards you. You don’t make it easy when you become that gentleman I only about read in Jane Austen novels. Without hesitation, you pay for the pitcher, cover fees and my bus fare home; you treat us to a beer and you give me four of your cigarettes in a very sweet way. You take my granola bar and I take a bite out of your beef patty. You call me kid and you’ve told me numerous times that I’m fun and that I’m “alright”. I love the way you avoid using words that say too much and stick to simple words which mean the world to me. You say not many people can make you genuinely laugh and I have the ability to. You have that look of innocence yet you know so much about this world, this life. You admit to your faults but you continue to move on. Your honesty moves me deeply and the way you have look at me keeps me hooked.
But what touches me most? I know you listen. I know because you have brought up things I had said in the past—things even I have forgotten. And it is scary to hear my own words come from your mouth. You are the gentleman I have been searching for. The one who does not look the part but whole-heartedly plays the part. Ironically, we both do not believe in the conventional but we are both attracted to each other—at least I believe so. You enjoy jazz, you listen to records and you write novels under a pseudonym on a typewriter. You are generous and kind.
I am hooked: hook, line and sinker.